that fanny-pack matches very nicely with your turtleneck

to a world that longs for the intimacy of 1,000 desperate arms and clings to their warmth. this is the end where the means are always justified and the status quo is our riot control. this morphine induced state of peace is our hallow legacy. death beats in my chest, with a framework crafted in the grave. how can this spineless creature hold onto so much pride? "follow me and i will make you butchers of men." manipulation steals my love. art is now officially dead, binary is all we will ever need. we make our beds on broken mirrors and wonder why our reflections are smeared with blood. we built this church in the rolling hills of La Mancha and don Quixote cares for our souls. in that distant land they only speak in tongues of idealism. if this is all we will be remembered for, then forget i even existed. la esperanza no es una arma. la esperanza es un cancion sin notas. la esperanza no es un amigo. la esperanza es un extranjero. la esperanza no es un conclusion feliz. la esperanza es una guerra.